


Stiles Versus The Mugwort

by thegirlnamedcove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Husbands, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, No Smut, Plants, Spells & Enchantments, There is the briefest canoodling, but it isn't sex, etsy, he just grabs his husbands dick, hedge crossing, many of these spells are real spells, sterekalphaemissary, sterekweek2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 23:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12493768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlnamedcove/pseuds/thegirlnamedcove
Summary: Stiles never realized being an emissary involved so much gardening.





	Stiles Versus The Mugwort

“Why does magic involve so much motherfucking  _ gardening _ ?”

Stiles digs the trowel into the dirt vindictively, probably severing a few roots along the way. His mugwort plant just rustles gently from the force and he gives it the finger before shuffling across the porch and back into the house.

“Having trouble out there?” Derek asks. He’s perched at the breakfast nook, contracts for a new pack alliance spread out across the table but being steadfastly ignored in favor of the coffee and crossword in his hands.

“Nope,” Stiles says, “Going perfectly. I always pictured my contribution to the pack involving bags of chicken shit and mulch.”

He flips on the tap and rinses his hands, although he knows nothing short of a manicure will really get the gunk out from under his nail bed. He should probably just give up and buy some gloves. Mrs Leister at the local Envy Nails is starting to get awfully judgemental about how often he comes in.

“Glad you’re so enthusiastic,” Derek said, and he could  _ hear _ the smirk on that bastard’s face without turning around, “So I can assume we’ll have enough supplies for the convention next week?”

He snorts, “Oh you’ll have enough wolfsbane. That crap grows like a weed, I can hardly keep it contained to its box. We can get the wolves drunk like it’s the end of the world. Meantime, I’m not going to be able to salvage enough mugwort from this summer to hedge cross even one time, and we both know how garbage I am at trance-work without it. And I fucking refuse to go back to that tea shop where the creepy fucking stoner works to buy the individual mugwort packets. He grabbed my ass last time, and if I go back I may break it off at the wrist!”

He drops the soap bottle into the sink with a thunk and braces against the counter. Strong arms wind around his stomach as Derek leans against him from behind and when he looks down he sees the pack tattoo, a pawprint, on Derek’s wrist and again mirrored on his own.

They’d agreed when the McCall and Hale pack’s merged to come up with a third symbol. Not the triskele or the two rings. Something special. Unique to them as a whole. Ultimately, it turns out that the only thing fifteen people with different tastes and values could agree on was that they were all, in fact, werewolves. It had been Jackson, of all people, to propose the compromise.

Well, propose was a strong word. He’d shouted it over the pack’s bickering, adding that for extra points they could make it a tramp stamp. But that tone was pretty typical for Jackson’s contributions, and the underlying sentiment grew on them, over time.

“Say the word and I’ll go break it off for you.”

“Oh will you,” he laughs.

“Mm-hmm,” Derek hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder and nuzzles into his cheek, “I have an in with the sheriff, I’m pretty sure I’ll get off scott free.”

“None of you will ever be Scott free again,” a voice from the garage called out, and then there was Alpha Number Two, with the goofiest and most unearned grin splitting his face in two and a bag of groceries on each arm.

“What did I say about jokes, Scott? You’re not allowed to make them ever again.”

He rolled his eyes and crossed behind them towards the fridge.

“I’m the Alpha, I can do whatever the heck I want.”

“Except swear, apparently.”

“Shut up.”

 

***

 

The mugwort is mocking him, he just knows it.

For one thing, it keeps slipping out of his hands. It’s not a typically oily or waxy plant, it shouldn’t be this hard to hold onto, and yet here Stiles is trying and failing to pluck leaves from the top and cursing to high heavens each time his fingers slide away without any friction.

He manages maybe a small handful of leaves in an hour, heavily shredded from all the abuse, before finally calling it quits. He knows it can’t hear him, but he curses at the mugwort heavily anyway before moving on to the spearmint.

He loves his spearmint. It makes the whole back porch smell amazing as soon as he touches it, oils radiating out into the air and clinging to his skin. It grows almost wild too, sprigs of it keep popping up all over the lawn all the way out to the side driveway, strong and thick and beautiful. Best of all it brings mental acuity, helping him to focus for the first time without stimulants, and as he runs a hand down the central stalk of his tallest plant he can’t stop himself from cooing at it.

“You’re such a handsome young man. I love how green you look today. Are you going to give me a few leaves for my tea? Oh, some big ones here at the bottom, thanks so much. They’ll taste lovely I’m sure.”

He fusses a little more, checks the drainage rocks before moving on. The lavender plant that stinks like old lady perfume, the twelve different plots of wolfsbane strains cordoned off with red twine, the kitchen herbs like basil and dill, and the huge plot of white sage that dominates the center. He’d claimed this deck for himself three years ago, when Derek was on a kick about saving money and magical supplies turned out to be their biggest expense by a mile. Under Stiles direction, Derek had salvaged some parts off of Craigslist and enclosed the whole thing in greenhouse windows, adding boxes and reinforcing the flooring where it needed it. When it was done Stiles just stood by the door and stared, feeling proud and domestic and industrious.

Now, he mostly feels grimy all the time. But it does save them a few thousand dollars a year so he manages.

On his way into the kitchen he passes the mugwort tucked into the corner and glares at it.

“I dislike you.”

 

***

 

The thing about being an emissary is, it doesn’t pay a lot.

Sure, he could just coast off the pack’s money. Plenty of emissaries do. Everyone with a job outside the pack house, which is everyone other than Stiles, pays in 70% of their wages to the general fund. Their housing, utilities, and food costs are all taken care of, and with the leftover 30% they can buy snazzy cars and laptops and subscriptions to exceedingly weird porn sites.

Conversely, anyone not working outside the home--again, just Stiles--receives a stipend. But his stipend isn’t enough to pay for the laptops and gaming systems he wants unless he really buckles down and saves, and he absolutely refuses to “just ask me to buy it for you” like Derek always suggests. He may be a lot of things but he is nobody’s sugar baby, and he will not have his affections bought with shiny things.

Derek often reminds him that his affections are already a constant in Derek’s life and he could not possibly be giving more, but it’s the principle of the thing.

The other thing about being an emissary is, you’re busy all the time.

Keeping the borders secure involves a fair amount of hedge crossing which is really, seriously, not his strong point magically speaking. He has an entire room dedicated to slipping into trance, with specialized music and a distaff and a million jillion pillows to help him forget his physical self, and yet he still needs chemical enhancements in order to cross into the metaphysical plane and start fucking around the threads of reality.

Potions work takes up time too, especially for the more complicated brews he’s developed over the years, and after the trance room he spends the most amount of time in the kitchen. Roasting herbs or pickling vegetables or just filling a jar with vinegar and nails, shaking the absolute shit out of it, and screaming. That last one is his favorite, really puts a healthy dose of fear into the wolves.

Plus the research, plus the interpack meetings he tags along to, plus the constant communication with the needy racist grandparent that is the Nemeton. He found a way in his first year to communicate with the damn thing and he’s regretted it deeply ever since, even if it has brought the forest back into balance. For a tree, it has very strong opinions about which creatures it will allow in its borders and he’s had to talk it down from poisoning some centaurs that were wandering through on more than one occasion.

The point is, he can’t really pick up a few shifts at McDonalds and be his own sugar daddy. Hence, etsy.

The easiest seller, by far, was the sage. Even the most novice practitioner, and anyone who watched ghost hunting shows, knew the stuff was aces for purification, and ecologically sustainable sources were hard to come by. White sage was, by and large, overharvested and the wild population of it couldn’t meet the demand. Stiles’ plot, however, was giving new leaves all year ‘round, and once a week he divided up his spoils into easily burnable bundles, half the size of most sold commercially, and listed them online for a dollar a piece plus shipping. That plus the lavender dream teas he bagged up and the glass spell bottles he bought at Michael’s, dripped wax on, and then resold, he was raking in tens of dollars a week. Once even a hundred in a week.

It wasn’t perfect, but it supplemented his stipend, and got him a subscription to Marvel Unlimited, so who was he to complain?

Well, he was Stiles, that’s who. Because his booming etsy business was starting to get custom orders. And his custom orders often came with sob stories. And a girl in Alaska had nightmares like you wouldn’t believe about her dead grandma, which Stiles knows just how to fix. All she needed was to have a psychic vision and talk it out with Nan, but she couldn’t do that without the right herbs and fucking nothing grows in Alaska in January.

So here he was, a bowl of jasmine, marigold, and clover in his hand, staring down the mugwort plant.

“I know you hate me,” he started, and then realized he wasn’t sure where to go after that. He felt stupid. Maybe he should just go to the tea shop.

“I know you hate me," he tried again, "but this isn’t for me. It’s for crystalmacelace. She can’t sleep and needs your help, and I really don’t want to disappoint her. So please, I am begging you, don’t crumble into a million pieces.”

He reached out, slowly, his breath caught in his throat, and ran his fingers up the stem toward the leaves. He found a leaf, whole and unblemished, about halfway up and pinched it just above where it branched off from the whole. With a low pop and a little bit of squish against his fingers it came away in his hand, crisp and even.

“Woo!” he whooped and tucked it neatly into the bowl before hustling away, puzzling through the logistics of how best to fold the leaves and flowers up in Isaac’s rolling papers without it looking like a joint. After a beat he caught himself and popped his head back out the back door.

“Thanks, uh...plant.”

He ducked back inside.

 

***

 

“Miserable little shit. Thinks it deserves all the goddamn fertilizer in the world.”

“Who are you yelling at, fox?” Derek peeked out of the shower and squinted at Stiles through the steam. He sighed and turned to lean a hip against the counter and scrubbed a hand along the back of his neck.

“Nobody. Just thinking about the mugwort. I shouldn’t be this upset, but it’s really starting to threaten our safety not having it. I thought it was starting to do better a few weeks ago when I did that psychic blend, but…”

“Dead again?” he asked.

Stiles nodded and sighed.

Derek ducked back into the shower, but left the curtain open a crack, just enough that Stiles could see the curve of his ass and the dip of his back around the corner. He smiled and shucked off his sleep pants, eager to jump on a clear invitation.

“You know you’re too mean to that thing,” Derek mused, “No wonder it’s mad at you.”

“Hmm?” Stiles hummed, stepping into the shower and sliding his hands up the back of Derek’s thighs.

“The mugwort. You’re abusive to it all the time, it probably can’t grow.”

Stiles looked up, confusion knit across his brow.

“It’s a plant, Derek.”

“Yeah, and plants like it when you talk to them. There’ve been all kinds of studies.”

“Didn’t know werewolves were that into science.”

Derek huffed and turned around, water sluicing over his body and a glower on his face.

“Everyone likes science, Stiles.”

He reached forward and pressed a hand against his husband’s groin, smirking at the stutter of Derek’s hips in response.

“I know, it’s just, big bad wolf like you kind of flies in the face of all that, don’t you?”

“The only difference between what we do and science is writing down results. Marshmallow roots for nausea used to be witchy stuff, before someone wrote it down and tested it consistently.”

“So I should talk to my...mugwort. Tell it how muggy and worty it is. Chat to it about the stock market. That sort of thing?”

Derek rolled his eyes but pressed forward into Stiles’ hand, a huff of breath showing how interested he was despite himself. Under Stiles’ palm, he was starting to harden.

“Just, you know... _ oh _ ...less stick, more carrot.”

“I don’t think you want me using less stick, Derek,” he smirked, gripping Derek’s cock and digging his fingernails into the underside of his balls.

Derek groaned and slumped forward, and the subject was forgotten.

 

***

 

“Okay. So. I know we’ve talked before, but it was always with the assumption that you couldn’t hear me. As you do not have any ears,” Stiles glanced up at the plant, and then back down at his hands again, “But Derek is usually right, like ninety nine percent of the time, so I figured I’d come out here and we could have a chat.”

The plant didn’t say anything back.

“He’s a good Alpha, you know. He does really well by us, protects us and cares for us. I don’t really deserve him, packwise or relationshipwise,” Stiles gave a wry grin, but there wasn’t much humor behind it, “He keeps me around though, so I try to do what he says and trust his instinct, and pitch in where I can. Part of that is maintaining our borders, which I really haven’t been able to do recently.”

The mugwort rustled in its pot and Stiles snapped his gaze up to study it, but it fell still again and he felt a draft from inside pass them and dissipate in the room. He scowled down at his hands again.

“I won’t beg you. That’s not my style or, I imagine, yours. The best I can do is promise to make an effort, and hope that you’ll make an effort in return. Okay?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Okay.”

 

***

 

“Hello, mugwort. You’re looking very much like pot today. I don’t know if you know what pot is, but that’s high praise, let me tell you.”

 

“Afternoon, mugwort. I saw a bird today, it was all green and blue and irridescent. Good omen. Do you care about omens? I never used to, but then I decided to read too much Harry Potter and hallucinate this whole werewolf and magic thing. Probably sitting in a basement right now, jibbering to myself. Good life choice, I think.”

 

“Mugwort is just the worst name. Who even named you? How about this, how do you like Madeleine?”

 

“Wow, okay, you do not like Madeleine. How did you wilt that much in twenty four hours? Maybe I got the gender wrong. I mean, you’re a plant, but still...August? How about August?”

 

“Much better. Okay then. How are you August? I told the spearmint about you. Guess I had been playing favorites, since I've always talked to that thing. Hopefully soon you’ll all be healthy and happy and not just some of you.”

 

“I’ll have you know it’s very unnatural for me to be this nice all the time. I’m not actually a very nice person. But since I value you and the contribution you make to our pack, I won’t bitch at you. Maybe I could bitch with you? Because Scott’s being a goddamn idiot over a girl again and I just cannot deal.”

 

“Derek asked about you August. I told him you were looking lush and verdant. I don’t think he believed me, but you know what, all he has to do is pop his lazy ass out here if he really wants to know. This isn’t my secret fortress, he could water now and again, you know? Yeah, you know.”

 

“Got you a present at the garden store. It’s worms! They’re going to till your dirt, make it nice and aerated and give you lots of nitrogen. I read about it in a better home and gardens magazine. They come in boxes of, like, a hundred. You can all have some.”

 

“I just feel like, if he valued me like he’s supposed to, he’d bring me to all the meetings. Not just take Boyd and give me his notes after. I know Boyd’s the second, but he’s a really bad notetaker. What am I supposed to do with ‘xtra armor, vis a vis coyotes’. Just...what?”

 

“You know, you guys are good listeners.”

 

***

 

Stiles scraped the last few pieces of rice off the plate and into his mouth, groaning in satisfaction. Dinner could be a big fancy thing most of the time, but some nights you just needed rice and beans and a little bit of salt to hit the spot.

The wolves around the table apparently agreed, their plates clean as well and Erica drifting towards Boyd's shoulder like she was thinking about just passing out right there.

“So, do we have anything going on tonight? Movie night or something? Because I was thinking I’d get a little extra spellwork in before bed if not.”

Scott gave him a wary look and shifted a few inches away.

“You’re not going to be yelling at vinegar again, are you?”

Stiles barked a laugh.

“No, Scotty, I save that for when one of you has really pissed me off. Leave you wondering what the curse is for.”

Isaac narrowed his eyes at him from across the table, “That stuff is a curse?”

“Oh, yeah. Vinegar is almost always curses, and you can trap bad energy in there for a boost. Tonight, though, I was thinking I’d cross the hedge.”

Beside him, Derek raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You finally figured out how to relax into trance without herbs?”

“Nah,” he smiled down at his hands, “Just got some good gardening advice from someone.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Most of the magic in here is real. Or, i guess, it's real if you believe magic can be real. I made a point of nailing down details and not embellishing anything, even if I did exaggerate results a little. Anyway, no matter what jokes I make about rolling papers don't actually smoke mugwort. It's psychoactive, and not in the fun way. At the most, burn it in a dish a few feet away from you, in a well ventilated room. Even that...can be sketchy.
> 
> Sage is the bomb for cleansing, but white sage is being threatened and kitchen sage works just as well.
> 
> Always be nice to your plants.
> 
> Spearmint is the goodest of good boys.
> 
> The vinegar thing is real too, but make a decoy poppet first to catch rebound spells. Always curse responsibly.
> 
> And so on.


End file.
